The riders had passed the orchards and were now racing over the fields. Looking wildly about, Max saw that the outer gates had been broken, but one of the inner portcullises was still intact. Racing into the guardhouse, he found the winch that controlled its chains and spun it about as quickly as he could. With a reluctant groan, the heavy iron grill slid down its grooves and fell into position. From outside, there were several shouts and the hoofbeats slowed. Max ran to Madam Petra, who had hidden the others behind the ruins of a fallen tower.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “We haven’t seen another way out—you’ll shut us in!”
“No,” he panted. “Sneak the others and the horses back into the keep. Go as far back as you can, as close to the eastern wall as possible. There must be some other exit, a postern gate or something. Start searching.”
“Yes, but how—”
“Just trust me. If I can deal with these riders on my own, I will. If not, the portcullis will delay them long enough so we can find the door and get away. If there is no exit, I’ll make one.”
“And what if they kill you and we’re still trapped inside?”
Max unsheathed the longsword and handed the weapon to the smuggler.
Taking the sword, Madam Petra lifted David and led the others into a dark archway that opened into the main keep. Stealing across the courtyard, Max saw the riders assembled beyond the portcullis, dark silhouettes against the moonlit countryside. Spurring his horse, one of the hooded figures approached the gatehouse, brandishing a torch.
“You can’t outrun the Fates!” the figure called out. “Cease this cowardice and show yourself. Embrace the death that comes for you.”
When Max heard that voice, his heart nearly stopped. From far off, the war horns blared and the western sky flashed with light. Another tremor shook the palace, knocking debris from the walls in little avalanches of rubble and broken masonry.
Smiling grimly, Max walked to the gates and unsheathed the Morrigan blade. He had been mistaken after all. That was no troop of Prusias’s soldiers waiting outside the gates.
The Atropos were here.
And the voice that challenged Max was his own.
The clone leaned forward in his stirrups and studied Max through the heavy bars of the portcullis. He might have been Max’s mirror image, but for his close-cropped hair and more powerful build. The Workshop had evidently tinkered with the source material, as though they had melted Max down and recast him into a form that was bigger and stronger than the original. Beneath his cloak, the clone was armored with a breastplate of polished black steel. Golden runes were traced upon the metal and gleamed like pale fire by the light of his torch. Behind him sat a dozen of Prusias’s malakhim. They formed a horseshoe around the gate, silent executioners whose faces were hidden behind darkly beautiful masks. One rode forward to take the clone’s torch and hand him a heavy, ancient-looking spear. The clone tested its weight and gazed across at Max. His handsome face was composed and cruel as he urged his horse toward the portcullis.
“I was afraid you wouldn’t answer,” he said calmly. “The buyer said you were a coward, that you’d run again and again until we finally caught you. But I told him you were better than that. You and I come from the same place, after all. And I don’t run.”
“So what now?” asked Max.
“I kill you.”
The response was chillingly flat, no emotion.
“We’ll see.” Max shrugged. “Did you murder those people at Piter’s Folly, too?”
The clone’s eyes glittered like dark jewels. “The world’s at war. There is no such thing as murder. Just obstacles and accidents.”
“I’m sorry you think so.”
The clone smiled and steadied his horse. “Prusias said you were weak,” he sneered. “Said his imp had to make up stories about your Arena opponents so you’d fight angry. Pathetic. You’re lucky you fought Myrmidon. I’d have had your head, brother.”
Walking closer to the portcullis, Max stared through the bars at the brazen youth sitting astride his coal-black courser. “You’re not my brother,” he remarked. “I don’t know what to call you. You’re just an experiment that didn’t work … a Workshop castoff scooped up by the Atropos to nip at my heels.”
In unison, the malakhim drew their swords, red-hot blades that smoked like hearth irons. The clone merely gave a venomous smile and laid the spear across his saddle.
“I don’t nip at heels. I bite at throats. Open the gate and find out.”
Max recalled his battle with Myrmidon. At several points, he’d overwhelmed his clone and struck what should have been a conclusive blow. And yet Myrmidon always recovered; the gladiator had advanced again and again as though nothing could hurt him. The encounter was seared into Max’s memory, its imprint as painful and poisonous as anything he’d experienced. This clone was far larger than Myrmidon had been. The Workshop must have conducted different experiments on each of its three prototypes. The assassin sitting astride the courser looked as though he could tear through the portcullis with his bare hands. Max wondered why he didn’t. Perhaps the clone was curious—intrigued about the original from which he’d stemmed. That curiosity might give Petra enough time to find another exit. Assuming there was one.
“Do you have memories?” Max wondered. “Or do they implant false ones?”
Talk of pasts and memories apparently displeased the clone. His face darkened momentarily before relaxing into a faint smile.
“There is no past; there’s only now. Memories are nostalgia, and nostalgia is for the weak.”
“The Workshop took my blood three years ago,” Max reflected. “You’re awfully big for a three-year-old. Did they grow you in a little tube or some giant machine? Did they have to train you, or did you just pop out, ready, willing, and able to kill?”
The clone’s smile became dangerous. “No big machines,” he replied. “Just a cozy little incubator with nanobots, accelerants, and neural feeds. It didn’t sing me lullabies, but it did make me strong … far stronger than you, brother. I’ve fought a million hyperbattles in the simulations and I’ve never lost. You want to think of me as a copy, as a cheap imitation. But you’re wrong. I’m an original. And you can stall or run for as long as you like, but you can never escape us.…”
As he said this, the clone held up something tucked inside his breastplate. At first glance, Max thought it was simply an ornament on the chain that fastened his cloak. But as the torchlight danced upon its gleaming case, Max recognized the object.
It was a magic compass.
Cooper had used the very same device to locate Max when he’d been imprisoned deep in Prusias’s dungeons. David had made it. Instead of pointing toward magnetic north, its needle always pointed toward Max.
“So that’s how you tracked us,” he said heavily.
The clone slipped the compass back inside his armor. “Your name has been written into the Grey Book,” he said. “Your life is over. Submit and we might spare your companions before Yuga devours them. Do you submit?”
As he said this, the sky rippled with a wash of incandescent light. Its brilliance cast a host of shadows that stretched through the gatehouse tunnel. Max glimpsed shadows of torches and chains … and a figure stealing up behind him. He whirled to face the assassin. When the sky flashed again, it revealed a familiar face.
The assassin was the second clone.
While Max had been speaking to one, the other must have scaled the high walls. Silent as a wraith, the nimble clone bore down on Max with a long dagger in each hand. Sparks flew as Max caught one blade on his cross-guard. But the other blade struck home, piercing his mail shirt and cutting along his ribs as he twisted aside. Seizing the clone’s wrist, Max turned and hurled him against the portcullis.
The clone crashed into it, his knees buckling from the impact and bending several bars. Backing away, Max saw him clearly for the first time. This clone barely resembled the one outside the gate. He was a good fifty pounds lighter, as gaunt as a week-old corpse, with tangles of black hair that hung past his shoulders. Like the witches, every inch of his pale skin was covered in tattoos. But the runes and hieroglyphs were not made with any ink; they were carved into his flesh by a knife or scalpel. The clone was panting, handling each blade with terrifying expertise. Gazing at Max, he grinned and revealed a row of razor-sharp teeth.
Max gasped. “What the hell did they do to you?”
